Not Quite
by eirene
Summary: This is a Narcissa fic, because I'm curious about her. This is her as a mother and a wife. She's not quite comfortable with either role, not quite bad, not quite good.
1. one

**Title:** Musings of a Reluctant Housewife  
  
**Author:** Eirene  
  
**Summary:** Draco is one month old. Narcissa thinks about stuff and finds herself sans husband and maternal instinct. Blahblah. Easier just to read it.  
  
**Author's Note:** Narcissa is much-neglected, and I wanted to give her character a little bit of rounding out. I wrote this during Spanish class. I haven't written fanfic in ages, but I thought I'd give it a try. This is probably a one-shot but it is continuable if I by some chance get motivated. Erm. I want to know what you think!  
  
***  
  
Bright, unfathomable blue eyes. A low, cool voice, lilting up and down.

"There's my precious boy!" Narcissa cooed, delighted with her new son, his special baby smell and wispy white-blond hair. She picked him up, cuddling his tiny, month-old frame close to her angular body, already free of the excess weight from her pregnancy. She rocked him back and forth, a little girl with an expensive new doll.

He started to scream.

Narcissa jumped, startled, nearly leaving her new baby tumbling to the floor. Realizing what she'd almost done, she became more flustered, and her gaze caught the new nanny dead on, her eyes at once frantic and commanding.

"Nelle! Take him!" Even as the words left her mouth, the young woman was bustling toward them and scooping the baby into her own ready arms. She was soft and warm to Narcissa's cool and sharp; Nelle exuded a maternal glow than Narcissa could neither comprehend nor match. Still, Draco continued his roar. It seemed, at times, that the infant would breathe his namesake's fire if he could.

"How he cries…" Narcissa whispered, feeling at once profoundly relieved and strangely guilty at being freed from the stifling wail of the baby. She closed her eyes, reminded of the day she gave birth to him. The pain—no magic could erase the pain of allowing a new life to escape a woman's body, a tiny human with all the world's possibilities in it, waiting to be unlocked or left to rust. She'd tried to hex the doctor and managed to stun a nurse before they'd had the sense to take her wand away from her. Then she'd reached for the photo, stared at it, concentrated on it. 

The photograph was of her and Lucius on their wedding day. Her picture-self smiled back at her confidently, and picture-Lucius beside her had snaked his arm around her waste. He stroked her side, keeping her subtly tethered to him, like a pet. In a very real sense, this was true; she was Lucius' pet. He played with her as he pleased, and when he tired of her, she knew he would take his pleasure elsewhere, from other men and women and gods only knew what else, and he would do so guiltlessly. Narcissa's deep Slytherin desire for control, for power, wilted in his presence; he was so charismatic. So beautiful and cunning and rich. She allowed herself to stay because, simply, she would always be around. His other playmates would not live in his house or bear his babies or accompany him in public. He may be able to toy with her, but she, in turn, could milk his presence and his money and make it her own. She could have power in her own right. 

Hours later Draco Malfoy had emerged, tiny, premature, and loudly proclaiming his indignation at the world. Narcissa had been so tired, so overwhelmed, that she declined the privilege of holding the bloody mess in her arms in favor of a long nap and shower.

She was startled out of her reverie by a sudden silence. Her eyes found Draco, suckling happily on a bottle as Nelle held him close, humming an old tune borrowed from her own childhood. Narcissa flushed and looked away from the plain-faced, full-figured girl, not much younger than she, who looked more a mother to the boy than Narcissa felt she could ever be.

__

Perhaps when he is older, she thought, _when he can talk to me. _Then she would take him out, buy him everything she was ever denied, mold him into a man like his father but not… not so cruel perhaps? Then maybe she could love him like all the other mothers loved their little boys. She could love him like her own mother had never loved her. How, in the meantime, was she expected to love a little something, who wailed all day and preferred that poor, unremarkable girl to her?

She waited for Nelle to put Draco to bed and summoned her to the kitchen.

"That was marvelous, Nelle, what you did with him back there," Narcissa declared. "I just don't know how you do it. It's just… well, it's one thing."

Nelle's eyebrows furrowed. Narcissa noted that her eyes were brown, and conveyed the same simple compassion that her movement did. She was from an old wizarding family, but had very little magical ability herself. Everything about the girl screamed "nonthreatening." Narcissa did not know whether this made her more reluctant or eager to do what she planned on doing to the nanny, to let her go. She would not let the inferior wench steal the affection of her son. And yet… she certainly had no time for a baby. She would go completely mad. Nelle murmured, in a neutral tone, "What is it, Miss?"

"Oh, nevermind, dear. Fix me some tea, won't you?" _Good help is so often hard to find_,she reasoned, _and it never hurts to make the house-elves nervous, thinking they're going to be replaced_.

The woman's thoughts drifted again to Lucius. She hadn't heard from him in over a week, and was disappointed staying at home while he ran in Voldemort's inner circle. Voldemort hadn't taken to Narcissa the way he had Amelia Lestrange, and so she remained merely a dispensable operative, used occasionally. Secretly, she preferred it this way, for although Voldemort had her loyalty, he did not own her entirely as he did Lucius. 

But even the expansive Malfoy Manor couldn't amuse her forever. She'd learned enough hexes and studied the dark arts, the light arts, and all of the in-between so extensively that she'd become convinced there was no practical purpose for continuing. She knew all the magic she needed to go to get around in the world. 

If only Lucius would come… he was nearly always amusing, if not attentive for extended periods of time. He had, in fact, only seen Draco twice since his birth. Narcissa felt a twinge, sprung from many bad memories, and resolved once again to make sure the boy had everything, and the best of it, including his father.

And she would have the best of it too.


	2. two

Narcissa had a memory. It was a memory of being held tightly in her mother's arms, and it was the only one of its kind.

Her mother's house was a near-empty graveyard of antique furniture and portraits. It had been in the family for centuries, and, except for a few select rooms, was decorated solely with dust and cobwebs. A few simple charms could have cleaned the place up, but Corrinne Dormus had never seemed to want it clean. It was better, she thought, to leave it dirty and abandoned, the giant house, meant to be occupied by a large, powerful family and its servants instead filled by a mother, a daughter, and a lone remaining house-elf. The family, like the house, was in shambles. It was only fitting that they match one another.

Narcissa remembered her mother as a cold woman, sparing in her affection, chilly to the touch. Cold and miserable and angry. She was obsessed with maintaining the pretense that the family line was still powerful and strong, selling furniture to buy the finest robes and any jewelry or enchanted objects that could be brought out of the house and shown off. Narcissa was merely a pawn, or a dress-up doll, meant to aid her in her quest. Meanwhile, they lived in an old magic house, that would have fetched a high enough price to sustain them for years in a more appropriately-sized abode. Corrinne would not have it; she preferred status to sustenance. 

It was after a party, an unbearable party at the Rookwoods' mansion, when Narcissa was eight. The girl had been dressed in painfully formal robes, and spent the hours sitting severely straight, keeping a pleasant expression plastered on her face, and hating, hating, _hating_ her mother. 

This was why she had been so surprised when, after they came home and Narcissa was measurably comfortable in her nightrobes, Corrinne had entered the room and sat down wordlessly on and old chaise. She had stared at Narcissa, eyes blank and sad and not really seeing her daughter there. Narcissa herself was frozen, unnerved by her mother's unusual actions and expression, usually so carefully composed into the image of a privileged socialite. Now the woman appeared almost blank, if not for the distinct sadness buried so deeply within her that it seemed to seep invisibly out of her pores and infect her every movement with an trace of hopelessness. Frightened, but inexplicably drawn to her, Narcissa took tentative steps to the chaise. The floor was so cold that she felt it might freeze her toes right off, so she hurried to her mother and sat down on the musty, French-style furniture.

There was an awkward moment. Narcissa contemplated the pattern on the chaise's upholstery, which was enchanted to match the décor of the rest of the room. It was currently dark, bluish grey. It matched her mother's eyes, she realized, and looked Corrinne full on the face. She stopped staring, and dropped her gaze to Narcissa.

"You are a wholly useless creature, daughter," she sighed. Neither of them changed expression, merely looked one another in the eyes, challenging, calm. The daughter wasn't surprised to see the same resentment she felt filling her own heart reflected in the eyes of her mother, but she said nothing. She was old enough to know that emotion was dead in this house, with this woman, and had long ago stopped bothering to feel much of anything. Still. It hurt to see.

Her mother's arms encircled her shoulders. It was meant to be affectionate, she guessed, but her mother did not know how affection was meant to be given. Narcissa crawled into the lap of her mother's thin, almost emaciated frame. Mother and daughter held one another for a few tense moments, until, at the same moment, Corrinne pushed the girl away and Narcissa slipped quietly away from her mother's body for the last time.

***

It screamed and giggled and bellowed. It would not stop. She swore it was a demon. Most of all, she swore.

A small, frail-looking little boy, hair of palest gold, ran about the room screeching. Its mother had long ago given up chasing it; it was fast and tiny and had an unnatural ability to fit itself into small, impossible to reach places. She merely stood watching it, gritting her teeth. She was tempted to pull a tapestry off the wall and smother the boy with it. In its hand was her wand, and the child was attempting to cast spells as it ran, more often than not just sending out sparks that singed the furniture. Occasionally, however, it did manage to "Accio!" something, like a rare, fragile vase, and send it spinning in the air, only to be dropped to the floor and shattered.

Narcissa was not amused. If she ever got her wand back, she would immediately transfigure her son into a teacup and keep him locked in the china cabinet for the rest of eternity. She imagined herself pointing it out to guests, a black porcelain piece emblazoned with an angry, silver baby dragon.

Lucius was in his study, orchestrating the last remaining maneuvers in his campaign to return to a position of power and favor in the Ministry of Magic and the British wizarding community in general. The Malfoy name had protected him from punishment, but it could not stop the whispers and the frowns and the general mistrust bestowed upon all of the acquitted Death Eaters. Consequently, he had very little patience with the boy when he was screaming. Or, for that manner, when he was not screaming. He would undoubtedly be extremely irritated, to say the least, when he found out that his precious things were being destroyed by a toddler whose mother could not control him. Narcissa hesitated. Draco was often terrified of his father, but his stubbornness consistently outperformed his fear. He tested his limits daily, sometimes hourly, even against his father, even at three years old. A part of Narcissa admired the child, and was exhilarated when she saw him stand up to Lucius in a way she had lost the strength and patience to do.

She decided not to disclose her son's most recent expression of childhood villainy, and waited for an opportunity to trip him. It seemed the most logical non-magical option. She took a slow, shuffling step toward the circumference of the circular room, sticking her right foot out casually. He rounded the sofa and deliberately, artfully stomped on his mother's toes, continuing on his way.

Well, now she'd had enough. Narcissa bolted after him with enough speed and anger to match a disgruntled blue jay, and fell face forward just in time to grab him by the ankle. Draco regressed from hellion to screaming, insulted child in a matter of seconds as he sprawled onto the floor. Narcissa hoped he hadn't poked his eye out with her wand, but no, he had dropped it, and she scuttled forward to pocket it before scooping up her son and placing him on the sofa.

Draco stared at her, baby teeth slightly bared, taking deep, angry breaths. His foot shot out and connected with thin air, and Narcissa marveled at how old he seemed inside, even as her hand instinctively found his cheek. 

She waited for the guilt to come as his eyes began spilling tears and his lungs launched another crusade against her ears. He sat for a moment, visibly torn, not knowing whether to crawl into his mother's arms or to run as far away as his tiny legs could carry him. No guilt came besides the vague sense of remorse associated with apparently having no feelings toward one's offspring at all.

She could pretend. She should at least pretend. It would come later, the love, the affection, the bond. Why wouldn't it? At the same time she realized that such emotions could prove to be very inconvenient, and reasoned that perhaps it was all right this way.

Narcissa scooped Draco up in her arms and clumsily perched him on her hip. She thanked Merlin that he was a small child; it was often that she was forced to do manual labor, and carrying the equivalent of a living, breathing sack of potatoes certainly counted as that. He was heavy.

"Mother's sorry," Narcissa whispered, touching her pale forehead to Draco's smaller matching one. "We'll go to the kitchen and have hot chocolate, hmm?"

She smoothed his hair and he smoothed hers back, grinning. All was forgiven.

Narcissa paused. "Draco, darling. Where is the kitchen?"


End file.
